The Midnight Charter

by David Whitley

  But why would Mr Laudate lie?

  The door hinges creaked. Mark brought his gaze back down, ready to defend himself against Mr Prendergast’s enquiries. Instead, the welcome sight of Snutworth appeared before him, a sheaf of papers clamped to his chest and one eyebrow raised quizzically.

  ‘Has there been another argument?’ he asked carefully. ‘Something seems to have ruffled my master. And was that Mr Laudate I saw being shown the door?’

  Mark nodded distractedly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Mr Laudate thought… I mean… he knows…’

  Mark’s mouth dried as he looked at Snutworth standing in the doorway. He wished he could ask Lily what to do; she was always so sensible. But she was far away and there was no one else. He needed someone to trust and Snutworth had never shown much loyalty to his master.

  ‘I think… something is going on,’ he whispered in a rush. ‘Something involving me, and the Count, and your master, and a plot… I don’t know what… Mr Laudate wouldn’t say.’

  Snutworth pursed his lips, frowning, his eyes flicking around the room. For one horrible moment, Mark thought he was going to go and tell his master his suspicions. Then he took a step back and fixed his eyes on something just outside the room, something Mark could not see.

  ‘There may be a way of finding out.’

  Snutworth raised one long finger to his lips and motioned for Mark to sit quietly. Mark did so, stuffing his letter to Lily into the pocket of his breeches. He was about to ask what Snutworth was planning, but when he heard the heavy tread of Mr Prendergast on the stairs he busied himself with clearing away his quill and ink. He kept his head down as the lawyer entered, wheezing from the climb, and muttered for Snutworth to return to the Observatory. Snutworth followed his master up the wrought-iron staircase.

  Mark could hear his heart pounding in his ears. From the room beneath he couldn’t pick out words – no matter how hard he tried, he could only hear the tone of voice – but the Count sounded angry. A moment later, Snutworth descended the stairs, shutting the trapdoor behind him, blocking out the voices above. He no longer held the paperwork, but he was smiling in triumph. Mark jumped up.

  ‘What did you shut it for?’ he hissed. ‘We’ve got no chance of finding out what they’re talking about now!’

  In reply, Snutworth glided silently over to the open bronze door and beckoned. Curious, Mark followed him out. Snutworth shut the door behind them.

  ‘Tell me, Mark,’ he said softly, ‘do you know what that is?’

  He pointed to the closed wooden hatch set into the wall beside the bronze door.

  ‘Of course,’ Mark whispered, confused. ‘That’s where I put the Count’s food if he doesn’t want to be disturbed at mealtimes. Lily used to use it all the time. There’s a platform in there that winches up food to the Observatory…’

  ‘I believe the technical term is a “dumbwaiter”,’ Snutworth said thoughtfully. ‘A useful device for an old man who doesn’t want to carry trays of food upstairs. Of course, they have their disadvantages. They can cause terrible draughts.’ Snutworth placed his hands on the hatchway. ‘You see, there needs to be an open shaft in the wall between the room below and the one above. And if someone were to accidentally open the hatch in the upper room while his master was distracted with papers…’

  Deftly, Snutworth slid open the dumbwaiter with a barely audible click. Understanding dawning, Mark eagerly pushed his head through the hole, leaning on the tray at the base, craning up to see the light spilling through from the Observatory hatch. Initially he could hear only muffled noises, but then, as his ears adjusted, the words became clear.

  ‘… I shouldn’t think Laud will spread the word, Stelli,’ Mr Prendergast was saying. ‘He knows that Ruthven’s allies will not employ him now he is known to have worked for us, and he has a business to maintain. Without the support of our friends, he and his family would be starving in a matter of weeks.’

  ‘A family? At his age?’ the Count rumbled.

  ‘Sisters, Stelli, not children,’ Mr Prendergast replied, with a smirk in his voice. ‘You really should take my advice and learn about your employees; it can be most beneficial. Laud may be reckless enough to break a contract of silence on his own account, but he knows full well that he would drag his sisters on to the streets with him. A man like that is dependable, after a fashion.’

  ‘You should never have convinced me to hire him,’ the Count snarled. ‘There must be many others who would take their payment without a murmur.’

  ‘Laud is the best, Stelli. He will have made sure that everyone who matters knows about Mark’s debut performance. Particularly those who would like to see our “learned friend” Lord Ruthven taken down a peg or two. It is already the talk of the elite circles that Ruthven has privately declared that this boy of yours will make the most accurate predictions of the entire festival.’

  Mark felt a strange glow of pride for a moment, until the Count gave a harsh laugh.

  ‘Yes, let Ruthven try to wriggle out of that one. Let him rue the day he issued that challenge to me in the newssheets.’ Mark heard a rustling noise, as though the Count were waving a piece of paper. ‘Listen to this! “We ask ourselves why members of the Astrologers’ Guild are held in such high regard, when any sensible Agoran can see that their starry pronouncements concern only versions of the future that benefit them, and them alone. They claim to know the truth, but wrap their prophecies in such a fog of mystery that they could mean anything. I believe that anyone, if schooled in the right words, would have just as much chance of unveiling the truth. A common child may prove to be as profound a seer as the venerable Count Stelli himself!”’

  Another sound, this time of a newssheet fluttering to the ground.

  ‘So be it,’ Stelli growled. ‘Let him stand by his words. Let him have his common child. A child trained by the very best.’ He pounded his cane on the floor. ‘Let him watch this child stumbling his way through the mysteries of the ancients and hear the scornful laughter as each prophecy proves empty and worthless beside our own.’ His voice sank lower, became more conspiratorial. ‘You are certain that everyone believes the boy to have been chosen by Ruthven?’

  ‘I told you,’ Mr Prendergast replied with calm assurance, ‘Laud is the best. He knows how to set the whisperers going. I cannot speak for the common man, but for everyone who matters… it is a certainty. The more extravagant the plot, the more certain the elite are that there must be some truth in it. As far as they are concerned, Ruthven has staked his argument – more than that, his reputation – on Mark, “the common child”, outdoing your most venerable astrologers in his visions of the future. Worse, he has attempted to skew the results by sending the most talented child he could find to train with you, without your knowledge, perhaps even offering him guidance behind your back. Even if Ruthven were stupid enough to deny it, it would only make the rumours stronger. All you have to do, Stelli, is to ensure Mark’s predictions are suitably preposterous, and Lord Ruthven will be disgraced, humiliated. And if a man who judges others for his living is found lacking in judgement… well, the city is not forgiving. His opponents have been waiting for a reason to bring him down for years. And our dear Mark will give them all the pretext they require.’

  At this point Mr Prendergast laughed – a high, unpleasant sound that pierced Mark’s ears, driving home the terrible realization of just how much he had been deceived.

  ‘And with it, of course, Ruthven’s Libran Society will lose considerable influence while they try to find a new leader,’ Mr Prendergast continued. ‘Unpopular he may be, but my spies tell me that it is only he that holds them together. Although I do wish you would explain to me why it is so important to damage the Librans. I know you have never been happy with their power, but surely you must have the Director’s ear? You and he were friends once, were you not?’

  ‘A lifetime ago, Prendergast,’ Stelli grunted. ‘Perhaps, after the festival, I will tell you about the dre
adful crimes of the Libran Society. But for now, suffice to say we must not fail.’ A note of grim mirth entered his voice. ‘Although I can’t deny, the chance to see Ruthven fall after his attempt to ridicule me adds extra sweetness to the affair. You are certain that the boy will not prove problematic?’

  Mr Prendergast snorted.

  ‘I shouldn’t think we will have much trouble with the boy revealing anything. After the festival he will be the worst kind of damaged goods – a laughing-stock for the whole city. No employer will be willing to give him a second glance. He would not be worth the investment, or the risk that he would fail again. It will be irritating for you to have to train a new apprentice, of course, but –’

  ‘I shall be training no new apprentices.’

  There was a surprised pause.

  ‘But, surely… after your great success?’ Prendergast ventured.

  The Count sniffed.

  ‘I am an old man, Prendergast, I have watched more than eighty summers roll past. In all that time, I have had only two ambitions: to become the greatest astrologer in all Agora…’

  ‘Which you have undoubtedly achieved, you are respected and loved by all of your brother astrologers –’ Prendergast began, but the Count interrupted him with a grunt.

  ‘Do not flatter me. They fear me, no doubt, but there is little love. My “brothers” who would abandon me in an instant were I to lose face. I am no more immune to that than Ruthven.’ The Count sighed heavily. ‘My other ambition has been to see Ruthven fall – to punish him and his Libran cohorts for their dark and secret crimes. On Agora Day, I shall either achieve that, or I shall fall. I have no time left to start anything new.’

  Mark heard a creak, as though Prendergast had leaned forward in his chair.

  ‘Come now, Stelli,’ he said soothingly, ‘let’s hear no talk of falling. We hold all of the cards. Thanks to our brilliance, Ruthven does not even have any influence over the boy he is supposedly supporting…’

  ‘Please, let us speak no more of him,’ the Count said wearily. ‘It has taken a great deal of patience to make the boy sound even slightly competent. There must be the appearance that I trained Mark to the best of my ability, but that even I cannot work miracles on a boy without a scrap of natural talent.’ There was a sound of shuffling papers. ‘But that is the sacrifice I have made for this venture, and I shall not have to endure his presence for much longer. I shall continue to tell him that he makes progress, however much it sticks in my throat.’ He coughed, suddenly businesslike. ‘Now, these preparations for the astrologers’ platform in the Central Plaza…’

  Mark could not listen any more. Shaking, he pulled his head back. He barely noticed Snutworth sliding closed the hatch of the dumbwaiter. He felt numb, as if the whole world was very far away. It was Snutworth who broke the silence.

  ‘Something of a setback, then, Mark.’

  ‘Can… can they do this?’ Mark said at last, finding his voice.

  Snutworth shrugged. ‘It isn’t illegal. My master is a competent lawyer, so he will have seen to that.’

  Mark tried to speak, but couldn’t. Instead, he opened the bronze door, silently walked over to his writing desk and began stuffing his few pens and hand-copied papers into his shirt.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Snutworth asked, a thoughtful look on his face.

  ‘Getting out, just like Mr Laudate said,’ Mark replied, refusing to turn round. ‘If you keep quiet about me, I can be halfway across the city before they realize I’m gone. These papers are mine. Maybe I can trade them for food until I can find a new job and make enough to trade back to the Count for breaking my contract…’

  ‘And your clothes?’ Snutworth said. ‘They are merely loaned to you by the Count. Take one step out of that door and you’re a thief and a debtor. No one will take you in. There will be nowhere to go.’

  ‘What choice do I have?’ Mark turned fiercely, fighting to keep his voice quiet enough not to be heard by those above. ‘You think I’ll have any chance of finding another job after the festival? You think anyone will want me when it’s known that I’m worthless?’ Mark felt sick as he forced the words out: ‘That I’m damaged goods?’

  He stopped then, his head swimming. He was shivering as if he could already feel the cold of spending his next winter on the streets, the last he would feel. Maybe, if he was lucky, disease would find him before he starved.

  Snutworth seized his arms, shaking him once.

  ‘Stop this!’ His voice was low and urgent. ‘You’ve been given a chance, Mark. Don’t squander it.’

  ‘What do you care?’ Mark hissed back, pulling free of Snutworth’s grasp. ‘This will be good for your master. You’ll be going up in the world.’

  ‘Quite true,’ Snutworth replied. ‘And the fact that you recognize it tells me something about you, Mark. You have such great –’ Snutworth seemed lost for the right word momentarily and then, with a smile, he found it – ‘potential. You have a quick mind, Mark, and a willingness to adapt to changing circumstances. You can turn this to your advantage.’

  Mark sat heavily on the edge of his desk.

  ‘It doesn’t take an astrologer to see where I’m going, Snutworth. There’s no way out. No amount of good fortune can save me.’

  Snutworth leaned in close, his eyes glinting in the flickering candlelight.

  ‘True,’ he said, ‘fate has turned against you.’ He paused, a glimmer of a smile on his thin face. ‘But fortune can be given a little… push. Will you trust me, Mark?’

  Mark looked up at the manservant then, his pale face inscrutable, but his hand extended in friendship. He breathed out, a long sigh. It wasn’t as if he had much choice.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ he said.

  Chapter Eight

  THE PAST

  Lily looked once again at the tattered piece of paper in her hand. This was definitely the right place. A squat, solid building of grey stone on a dull, functional street. Even the crowds in the Aries District seemed less energized than in the rest of the city. This was certainly not somewhere to try and hawk your wares. Everyone here knew their place – usually, it seemed, working for the vast paper factory that loomed over the district. But this building was different, and not just because it was a little larger and a little cleaner than those around it. This was where she had spent the first six years of her life.

  Receiving Mark’s latest letter had made up her mind. It had been brief, and the ending seemed sudden, as if it had been finished in a hurry, but one line had stood out for her: it keeps my father out of my dreams. This had made her think. As she spent her days measuring out the remedies or cleaning the doctor’s scalpels, the thought had grown inside her head, nagging at her, demanding attention: at least Mark had a father to dream about. She hated herself for thinking like this. It wasn’t as if Mark much wanted to remember the man who had sold him in exchange for medicine to save himself, but even if he felt nothing other than hurt, that was something.

  In the end, she decided she had to find the orphanage. This wouldn’t be hard, because her records were held at the Directory. It would only take one letter to find out which of the city’s orphanages had been her first home. Even so, it needed all her resolve to send it. It had sat on a table in the former temple for days, unposted, until Benedicta, paying one of her visits, had picked it up.

  ‘Do you want me to post this for you?’ she had asked.

  Lily had taken it back, confused, telling her in a mumble what it was about.

  Benedicta had gone quiet for a moment, before saying gently, ‘You should post it, Lily… Who knows? Your family might be looking for you… I don’t know what I’d do without my brother and sister…’

  ‘It’s… difficult, Ben,’ Lily had replied. They had been friends for months now, yet Lily still found it hard to talk about her past. ‘They could be anyone. Right now, I can imagine what I want… invent a new family every day… But if I really found out…’

  ‘They might not want you?�
� Ben had suggested.

  ‘Yes… How did you…’

  ‘The Signora wrote a letter,’ Ben had said, sadly. ‘She wrote to her husband, to ask his forgiveness.’ Ben had taken Lily’s hand. ‘She wrote it ten years ago. I have to dust around it. It’s been waiting on a table in the hall all of that time. I think she still believes that she’ll send it one day.’

  Lily had posted the letter within the hour. And had a response by the next evening.

  Lily fingered the little glass phial she wore on a chain round her neck, the word Disgust still visible on its surface, although it was long since empty. It reminded her that the fear she was feeling was perfectly natural. Her memories of this place were not good, and even though she had been so young when she last saw it, no more than six summers, the oppressive atmosphere of the place flooded over her as if it had been yesterday. But she would not be sent away, not this time. If any sign of her past, of her unknown parents, could be found in Agora, it would be found here and she had to know.

  She reached up, lifted the knocker and brought it down, three times. The sound echoed within. After a while, she heard shuffling footsteps and iron bolts being drawn back. The door eased open to reveal a thin-faced boy who could have seen barely seven summers peering from behind. He stared at her expectantly. Lily took a deep breath.

  ‘Miss Lily, to see Matron Angelina,’ she said.

  The boy nodded, unspeaking, and pulled the door open a little further. Steeling herself, Lily stepped through, and the boy closed the door, shutting out the daylight.

  She recognized the smell first, that musty odour of damp. Then the corridors began to feel familiar. She remembered them as larger than they seemed now.

  In the distance she could hear the chanting. She remembered that too: the matron’s idea of lessons – filling their heads endlessly with ‘the Glory of Agora’ without once showing it to them.